"Tell me about your mother"...

One more thing. I might as well get it all off my chest while we're here, getting to know each other. This way, we can move forward. I'm not going to waste any time confessing all the old ugliness, so we can get into the newer, juicier stuff.

My mom drives me crazy. Sometimes I love her to death... there were times she came to visit while we lived out of the country, and when she left, I would cry for two or three days. I remember when I was a teenager, and I would sit and her feet while she sat in an armchair, and I would rest my head on her lap and she'd run her fingers through my hair. I remember walking up to her, needing hugs. It wasn't that long ago. I keenly remember her telling me about a movie she'd seen with my dad, and I interrupted her, telling her that she was a great storyteller and that I was so interested in what she was saying, and how she was saying it.

And now, I hate the way she sounds when she eats. I absolutely despise how she deals with the kids. I hate her knotted brow. I hate her depression. I go bonkers when she describes things in too much detail, with way too much enthusiasm. I can't stand how she "suggests" and tries to diplomatically phrase her wishes;

"I was about to show something to you."
"What was that?"
"I pulled out all this yogourt from the fridge. There are five containers (as she's progressively getting more and more agitated). Let's make sure this doesn't happen again. This is such a waste."
"Ok... it's ok. It's not a big deal. We'll just use it."
"It IS a big deal! This is money, hun."

It's yogourt. And I wasn't even home during the day for about two weeks in a row due to work. I'm not the one processing what's in the fridge! And it was my money.

It's all so trivial. This is the stuff that annoys you when you're stuck in a cabin in a blizzard with no communication and limited rations for a week or a month or a year. So. Cabin fever? Maybe a little. More than that, I suspect. As you can likely tell, I'm going through some rather difficult reflection lately. All the things she exhibits stress me, they always have... and I simply have no tolerance for it anymore. I find it hard to even be friendly during the good times. She doesn't deserve that kind of behaviour from me. (I edited that phrase. What I originally wrote was, "She doesn't deserve it." Interesting. Mr. Therapist, please take note.)

I deserved to be tolerated better when I was little. Even today. I deserve forthrightness. I want directness, and solidness. I don't get that from her. I want SPACE. I want relaxed intimacy. I want to feel like... I'm totally alright. Like I'm not doing anything wrong. Like I'm not required to do anything differently, or that I'm missing point 897, subsection a) of the Family Book of Etiquette and Protocol. I want to be ok. I thinkI imagine I'm not doing enough to make life easier or do better in the house or contribute enough. I get a very strong sense that I'm indeed pissing everyone off, all the time. At least I worry that I am. I feel observed and evaluated.

How much will be solved once I finally get out of this house? I shouldn't be so eager to leave... honouring my mother and father is a commandment. I should title this blog, "Commandments, Schmandments". We'll see how many I can break before I'm done publishing.

This isn't major. This is one of those things I can live with, since I know my mother will always be my mother, no matter what. I know I love her, and I know how much of me IS her, and I know it will come and go as the conditions surrounding us change. This isn't like the other stuff. The other stuff changes life inalterably. It threatens my kids and my husband and his family and mine. Wow.

Ok, mom. You're off the hook.